


A Portrait of Brotherly Love

by an_environmental_product



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 11:12:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4562427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_environmental_product/pseuds/an_environmental_product
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius Black is back home, and his family is driving him mad. Over the course of just one day, his family makes it sickeningly obvious that no matter what he may do and no matter how much he may try to deny it, blood cannot be escaped. As Sirius feels the straws of his sanity and patience slipping from his grasp in the face of abject hatred, it is only his brother he can turn to. But can he really, or has everything already gone so very wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Portrait of Brotherly Love

The chandelier hanging above the room appeared at first a simple elegant, twisting design perhaps similar to a celtic knot until one looked closer and saw the emerald eyes and worn snake scales. Candles sputtered to life automatically when Sirius woke, failing to chase away the grim, unbroken dusk of a London winter. He stared upward at a ceiling too dark despite the chandelier and open curtains, unable to decipher the line between smiling and throwing up.

  
With a heavy breath past a tightened throat and adrenaline-filled lungs, Sirius pushed himself up quickly. The calendar reminded him Christmas was in a week; the clock ticked closer to 8:30AM, Grimmauld Place’s staunchly-observed breakfast time. Ignoring everything but the pressure of his feet against the floor and the old, scarred trunk he almost tripped over, Sirius crept to the door of his room which opened with a creak beneath his touch.

  
_Regulus A. Black._

  
His brother’s plaque—the counterpart to Sirius’ own—shone brightly across the hallway, a sure sign of whom Kreacher considered a favorite. Sirius’ shoulders slumped, chest collapsing with a whoosh of air. His hand tightened on his own doorknob. He shouldn’t bother his brother. It was early, and it was unhealthy. He should try to clear his mind instead; get on with his day. His knuckles whitened as though ready to split.

  
_Regulus A. Black._

  
With a slam, Sirius shoved his door closed and his body across the hallway—burgundy and brown with dusty wooden paneling and an oriental rug. Regulus’ door didn’t creak. A single robe was draped over a wooden chair paired with a desk, but nothing else was out of place: bed pressed, not a single stray shoe on the floor, wardrobe closed and dusted. It was as spotless as it was empty.

Sirius’ fingers tapped against the polished doorknob; his teeth dug a crevice into the soft skin inside the corner of his mouth. Regulus would probably be just upstairs in the attic, already awake. Sirius backed out of the room, shutting Regulus’ door too loudly and too quickly, then turned down the hall and rushed loudly up the shabby stairs to the attic.

  
Regulus was waiting when Sirius got there, already giving a sidelong look toward the door. “You’re loud,” was the complaint Sirius received, though as always his brother’s tone was so mild it could have been an observation.

Sirius shrugged. “You’re too quiet.”

Curled up in an old armchair that had always been his favorite, Regulus looked smaller than ever. His head rested just less than halfway up the green-black fabric covering the straight back. He was curled so deeply into the corner that there was room for an entire adult to take up the throne next to him, and that was despite the book balanced on Regulus’ knees far enough for him to read. His eyes were the only bright thing in the attic: a slightly bluer grey than Sirius’ own, they reflected the winter light just as well as they would reflect a fire.

“Why are you up here?” Sirius asked, though he knew the answer. Regulus was one of the few people whose voice Sirius simply enjoyed to hear.

“I don’t like anyone today.” The response was brash for Regulus yet he spoke with the dry detachment of a prince, at which Sirius couldn’t help but chuckle. He quickly changed tactic at the petulant glare shining in the darkness in front of him.

“Oi! Thanks.” Feigned indignation always worked best.

Regulus sighed. “You know you don’t count.”

Sirius snorted. “Yeah well, that’s me. I never count.” His brother favored him with an exasperated silence then, which Sirius allowed until he couldn’t take it anymore. More seriously, Sirius added, “They’re all loony. You know that, Reg.”

Regulus shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why are you so soft when it comes to them? It’s stupid.”

“I’m not stupid! They’re our family.”

Sirius snorted. “So?”

“So they love us.” Regulus buried his head back in his book, a weak signal that the conversation was over. Regulus’ signals were always weak: too damn subtle and they never lasted around Sirius. “Why don’t you talk to me at school?” His voice was soft, face pinched with worry so that he looked even smaller. Did the kid even eat?

Sirius swallowed harshly. “I dunno, Reg. You’re a Slytherin.”

“Well you’re a Gryffindor, and I still would’ve talked to you!”

“Yeah, but you probably shouldn’t. Wouldn’t want to make your friends angry. Or them—” Sirius jerked his head toward the door.

“They’re always angry anyway.”

“Maybe you should talk to me more, then. Just to make them even angrier.” Sirius smirked, but Regulus shook his head. As much as Sirius loved him, he had to admit his brother was getting harder to talk to. Nothing wiped away that look of nerves. “Merlin, Reg, it’s a joke. Just laugh and nod. Don’t they teach you how to get along with others in Slytherin?”

“Do they teach you to be a bully in Gryffindor?”

Sirius’ jaw tightened. He was chewing his mouth again. This wasn’t how the conversation was supposed to go. He wasn’t going to argue with the little twerp the whole time they were in the same room together.

“Oh lay off it,” he finally snapped.

“Fine.” There went the book again: a huge tome full of who-knows-what that covered everything up to Regulus’ forehead. Sirius growled.

“Look, I’m sorry we—” Regulus brow rose until Sirius rolled his eyes and corrected himself—“I, then, didn’t talk much, okay? But it’s Christmas now so can you lay off it?”

Regulus sighed; the book slipped back down to his lap “Yeah, okay.”

They’d had the same argument far too many times. ‘You should have asked to be in Gryffindor!’ Sirius had yelled at his brother often while Regulus had only shook his head and claimed he hadn’t tried to be in Slytherin—it was just where he’d been put. Now, Sirius looked his brother up and down. Quiet, loyal to a fault but only to a select few, passive-aggressive, traditional. He was definitely a Slytherin alright.

It wasn’t time to argue about that anymore, but the damage was already done: it left a stale weight in the air as though the crumbled conversation had simply been added to the dust in the air. Regulus was silent, staring down at his book, his thumb lightly tracing the pages. He blinked a few times too many, but Sirius could see he wasn’t crying.

“It’s almost Christmas,” Sirius repeated.

  
Regulus nodded silently. If Christmas wouldn’t excited him despite this fetid place, then Sirius was at a loss. He could hear his mother screaming downstairs about the usual: filth and mudbloods. Suddenly, Sirius wasn’t in the mood to banter either.

He had checked again to make sure Regulus was okay, but loathe to leave on such a sour note, Sirius hesitated in the doorway as he made to leave. “You wanna tell me about… about Hogwarts?” Regulus ignored him with book in his lap and unmoving eyes. Sirius left, glum and with gum instead of bones. Everything was an argument here. Even with Regulus.

 

After breakfast, Sirius stayed away from his brother. He paced their hallway; he lay on his bed throwing a rubber ball up to the ceiling and catching it over and over; then he wandered the perimeter of his room. He remembered now what was almost worse than his mother: home was beyond boring.

Nothing had ever happened at Number 12 other than family meetings. They were barely allowed outside because of the muggles. His father was always too busy in his study doing whatever it was he did. His mother was busy pacing, ranting, and watching to make sure not a speck of dirt was left behind while Kreacher cleaned. It was probably the only worthwhile thing she did; Sirius looked around his own untouched room and was glad that unlike his brother he didn’t sneeze like mad anytime a dust cloud rose in the air.

His boredom made it even more difficult not to seek out Regulus. Before school, he and Regulus had been closer than anyone: partners in crime. Sirius could remember when they’d stolen Father’s wand—Regulus had been quick enough and small enough to pickpocket all sorts of things from their relatives—and had spent the day charming silverware to fly around the kitchen. They’d driven Kreacher mad with that one; the elf had stood on the table shrieking at them, jumping up and trying to grab the precious family forks before they could get battered and scratched.

Sirius snickered at the image before snapping back into the present where his mother was more insane than ever, and the house stood silent on a good day. In a way, it was he who had ruined everything, but Sirius shook his head hard, refusing to feel guilt. Instead, he jumped out of the bed, pushing his crumpled sheets away as though they were his thoughts.

Remus would be proud of him as he headed for the family library, and James would be concerned. Sirius wondered vaguely what any one else would think if they knew that Sirius Black spent most of his time now quiet and reading, gnashing his teeth at the silence. Sirius kicked the wall before he pushed open the double doors—dark and heavy wood—that let through to the library.

The library was one of the largest anomalies in Number 12. Although the structure of the neighboring rooms and hallway should have made it impossible, the library was two stories high; the walls rounded so that each shelf was easily visible. A ladder that hooked onto a rail on the upper shelves rested across the room from the entrance, and to his left was the fireplace built into a rectangular section of wall that had no shelving. The portrait above it was empty

Most of the books were simple spellbooks, many unique to the Black family, which Sirius passed without a second thought. There were history books, magical theory books, books about ancestors’ journeys to strange lands, bestiaries, literature, and a small section of children’s books. Sirius grabbed the first book that struck him as interesting: the chronicles of some relative who had gone to Egypt and various places in Central America in search for pyramids. The handwritten list of places and page numbers made Sirius feel restless and even more trapped than ever.

Book in hand, Sirius crossed the room to drag an armchair closer to the fire. Several lamps lit as he drew close, attempting to chase away the winter shadows. From what he could tell, the author was his great-great-great-great grandfather Cygnus Arcturus. That would have been Phineus Nigellus’ father, then. Sirius wrinkled his nose at the thought of the most forgotten headmaster who haunted the guest room, then began reading, drowning out thoughts of his home.

_July 20th, 1861_

_The heat is sweltering and the sand inescapable. It sticks to the skin, works its way into the best of clothing. It is as unending as the sea. The locals are incredibly distrusting and there is political upheaval even here in this wasted land._

Sirius flipped the pages quickly. He didn’t care about what anyone in his family thought about other people.

 _Three of my men have been cursed; another missing and presumed dead. There seems to be a hieroglyph common to each of the rooms the men entered before being cursed. I’ve ordered the men already cursed to carve the symbol from the rock and place it in a case made of iron and protected with every charm available. Hopefully they will be able to finish their work before the curse claims them. Several of my men are_ cursebreakers _, but none of them have been able to rid their comrades of the hard lumps growing from their bodies._

_August 7th, 1861_

_We have collected three carved symbols: two of which contain the curse we first encountered (one of these three men has died, two others continue to grow extra limbs from their bellies, temples, and forehead and one has an unidentifiable limb growing from his back; they are subject to bed rest and potions to hold away the pain) and one other which, when approached to carefully encircles one in a ring of fire. Five men are burnt as they were to close to the man who was surrounded, but not badly so. We were able to douse the flames just long enough to get our man out, however the fire remained for hours._

_As of yet, there is no sign of the inferi ‘mummy’ rumored to raise from the depths of the tomb._

_August 13th/14th 1861_

_I believe we have finally reached the burial, though a sarcophagus may sometimes be that of a servant rather than the pharaoh in order to fool those who seek more. Unlike foolish mudbloods, however, the call of the magic is clear in the room. If this is not the pharaoh, this is then the caster of the curses. How the curses continue after the death of the caster will be the most important discovery of the century._

_From the sarcophagus, it is clear that the remains are that of a young boy. Likely he was 16 or 17 but by today’s standards he looks a boy of 12, making his burial remind the men of their own mortality and the mortality of children back home._

The book sunk down into Sirius’ lap, glowing in the fire as though it too might burn. Something prickled against his skin, making him turn and raise his head straight into the glare of his father, silently accusing him of intrusion. When Sirius picked up the book again, it was with false steadiness; he could feel his face heating up to a schoolboy red and the words that his eyes passed over had no meaning even several pages later.

He wasn’t doing anything wrong: he wasn’t in his father’s study; he hadn’t touched any of the books on the top shelf over the fire; he wasn’t making any noise. Still, he could feel his father’s eyes against his neck and the static of irritated hatred in the air. If Sirius left it long enough that his father had to actually tell him to leave, there would be trouble. Sirius bit the inside of his lip. The library was the only place he almost liked. Quickly, he shot a glance to his left.

Still there was that glare from blank grey eyes, dark and wall-like despite the flames shining in them. Sirius heart sped, trapped against his ribs the same way he was caged in this house. It was as though his father’s eyes were all that he could see, boring into him, more in control of Sirius’ body than he was himself. Those eyes could freeze his limbs, burn his insides, and make him bow. He could fight, of course—Sirius had fought back before—but what use would it be now? No matter who won, the glare would always follow him.

Clenching the book under white knuckles, he walked out as quickly as he could without betraying a deep instinct to run. He could feel the prickling of eyes on his neck until the very second he closed the door, then let out a growl of frustration after swallowing down the tightness in his throat.

What did the rest of the house have for him? Kreacher muttering and sneaking throughout the house as though cleaning had at one time been made illegal. His mother screeching back at even the softest whisper she heard. A bedroom right across from his brother’s filled with pictures of places he couldn’t go and people he couldn’t see.  
Blindly, Sirius left the library behind, wandering down dusty hallways and grim staircases. He flung open the first door his steps led him to: the guest room. It had once been their nursery, but now the toys were cleared from the shelves and floors—likely thrown in the attic—the beds were floral print instead of decked with pictures of animals, characters, or broomsticks; the walls were welcomingly blank.

The doorknob beneath his fingers was as shined as the rest of them: the walls and shelves were dusted and the dresser was as well. There was no chandelier of snakes; the beds were welcoming, white metal frames rather than high arched wood. There wasn’t a single crest to be found anywhere. Sirius let out a sharp noise of relief, let the door close, then wearily crept to the closest bed and collapsed on it, book under his stomach until he tiredly pushed it underneath the fluffed pillow in a sham that matched the comforter.

This room could have been any room in any other house. Even the smell of it was different: something fresh instead of the dank smell of dust and hate in the rest of the building. Sirius’ throat tensed while he remembered to himself that this was how other people lived: in a place with cheerful rooms that welcomed everyone instead of a choice, opinionated few.

 

In a heady darkness that could have been dawn or dusk, Sirius woke, face pressed against a pillow that wasn’t his. Head pulsing with extra pressure and throat thick with dehydration, he pushed himself up, wondering what had woken him. The room was freezing enough that he wondered if the windows were open or if a blizzard had started outside.

“Sirius.”

Startled, Sirius nearly fell off of the bed trying to both get up onto his knees and turn at once.

“Sirius Orion Black!”

“Shit, what?” The lamps in the room lit then brightened the room until he could see Phineas Nigellus’ face, white and wrinkled as blank canvas in front of his green backdrop. There was shrieking coming from down stairs that left Sirius unsure who had woken him: Phineas or his mother.

“Appalling, the things that come from children’s mouths. Is that how you address an elder?”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “I don’t sleep in here anymore because I don’t need to be babysat by you. What do you want?”

Phineas’ voice managed to become even more crisp and biting than usual. “Your mother is screaming so loudly I can hear her at Hogwarts; it’s a wonder Dumbledore cannot. Not to mention, the doxies are back in the drawing room. I want you and that useless elf to get rid of them at once.”

Sirius grunted, pushing his hair out of his face as he stood. “I’ll do it myself.” His neck ached, setting off his headache even more. The last thing he needed was to spend time alone with Kreacher and some doxies.

“See that you do.” Phineas turned his back, showing folded hands and a ramrod gait, then disappeared.

Winter’s chill sent a swift shiver down his spine before Sirius shrugged it off, rolling his shoulders while he looked at the room again one last time. The book he’d gotten from the library had fallen face-first to the floor, binding spread open, pages crumpled. It was the only visual sign he was in his family’s home at all. Before he could bend down to get it, his mother distracted him by breaking out into fresh screams. Growling, he rushed out the door, opening it with a slam.

“Shut up, mother! Shut up!”

“Filth! Filth everywhere! Nothing can save this house! Nothing! Not even burning!”

If only ears were so easy to close as eyes. Determined to ignore her, Sirius stomped down the last flight of stairs. He passed her and Kreacher—the latter muttering quiet apologies and empty promises, wringing in his hands the filthy rags he wore—but quickly turned his back to them, heading to the right, down the hall, and into the parlor.

Doxies were like moths from hell mixed with bats and bees and the general collection of flying nuisances. Sirius could hear them squeaking, chattering and hissing even before he opened the door; when he did, the room went silent as the pixies stared at him then whizzed back to their curtains and choice holes in the family tapestry where they buzzed quietly to themselves and gnawed a feast.

“I should just keep you in here and let the whole place rot.” Sirius grabbed doxycide out of the large wooden cabinet with glass doors for keepsakes, rounded the grand piano, and got as close to the drapes as he was willing.

The humming rose in pitch until it resembled the shrieking of cicadas. Sleeve over mouth, Sirius sprayed toward them, dodging a flurried attack. They swarmed, tugging his hair and robes; a brave one, biting at his neck. Sirius cursed then swatted them away, but continued, determined to at least scare them off before he stopped to slather on the antidote.

“Where the bloody hell do you keep coming from?” He’d saturated everything in this room more times than he could count, even the cracks in the floor and the portraits which whispered ‘Such language’ at his outburst.

What seemed hours later, the battle swung in his favor and the cloud of doxies coming from the curtains subsided. The very last survivor clamped its teeth into the flesh of Sirius’ ear as Sirius finished off its last fellows in arms, then ground into the skin with an inhuman, shrieking yowl while Sirius pulled it away, fighting back a shout of his own. At last, Sirius threw it forward where it hung in the air for before falling with a thud faster than the droplets of doxycide could scatter to the floor. Sirius groaned and leaned back against the piano, letting the doxycide drop into its bright surface.

“Merlin.”

The tick of the grandfather clock grew extraordinarily loud, as did his breathing. In the calm silence after the storm, Sirius became suddenly aware of a buzzing that initially made him glare in outrage at the drapes until he realized that it was not a buzzing but a ringing. A deep, quick throb caused him to slap a hand to his neck where he felt swollen skin and a small amount of blood, which jogged his memory.

“Bollocks.” He wasn’t sure whether he whispered or shouted, only that a portrait’s indignant exclamation—“Beastly!”—seemed directly in his ear or maybe even in his head. With a mind strangely numbed to concern, he stumbled toward the cabinet, reaching for the tiny tub of anecdote.

“Why is everything here poisonous?” Sirius said. “This house is poisonous.” He dropped the container. When bending at the waist toppled him over, he took it all in stride in a drunken, fevered way, more concerned with wrestling open the screw top than he was with standing.

“Poisoned by you,” a portrait sniffed. “A Gryffindor.”

Sirius could hear the clinking of champaigne bottles and the soft tones of a piano carefully muted to complement the socialites rather than drown them.

“Oh no wonder Walburga and Orion were embarrassed. I would be.”

“What on earth did they do wrong?”

“Shut it!” Sirius was sure he was yelling now; the sound made his head pound. Finally, the tub popped open and he delved his hand inside, taking an entire handful of the cream. It cooled his skin as he pressed it against his neck, a few bites on his arm, and the gash in his ear.

“Done in by a couple of pixies, eh?” The party tittered at some great uncle’s comment.

“You lot were perfectly fine keeping quiet while—”

“While you fought the mighty doxies!”

Sirius bit his mouth shut. All he had to do was put the cream away, cross the room, then close the door. Easy. He could keep his sanity. He could hold his tongue. He could be good and behave.

“I bet Walburga knew the whole time. Always good at sniffing out a bad egg, she was. I bet she never loved him.” A portly man nodded knowingly before sipping a crystal goblet of wine.

“Or worse; she loved him until he ripped out her heart. I’ll bet she cried herself to sleep. Any mother would have.” A few gasps and whispered conversations followed the statement while the speaker wrung a pearl necklace as though she might strangle herself.

“And what about the little one?”

“Oh yes—the quiet o—”

“Too quiet for an heir, I say.”

“What ever will he do? So much to take on.”

“I’m not dead, you know!” Sirius couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m not dead. Nothing has to happen to Regulus. I’m still—”

“Absolutely unacceptable as an heir,” An ancient man finished Sirius sentence with an agonized breath as though he couldn’t even afford to finish his own.

“So sad—a” the woman’s pearls twisted ever tighter—“So, so sad.”

A room full of grey eyes drilled into Sirius’ own while the single word echoed from voice to voice: “Traitor.”

“I’m not a traitor!” His voice shook his own frame, causing the babble of the portraits to cease in shock before rising up again like a pot coming to a boil. Their ruckus was more venomous than ever; the only blessing being that their voices drowned each other out. Unable to take it, Sirius ran from the room, knowing fully well that nowhere he could go in this hell-house could be any better.

His mother was in the hallway.

The house was ready to shake apart—or maybe just his bones—as he lunged up the stairs.

His father would be in the library.

Sirius careened down dusty, creaking hallways.

Phineas was chasing him through countless portrait frames.

“Stop it.” He could hardly speak past gasping. Two more floors to go.

“Sirius Orion—”

One more floor. One more. His and Regulus’ floor didn’t have any portraits; Phineas was left behind.

His vision narrowed to the attic door; burning lead poured into his muscles with each step until he finally burst through. Panting, he kicked the door closed behind him. Grey eyes locked onto him as his brother raised his head. In front of the armchair, Sirius knelt heavily.

“I can’t do it. I can’t do it, Reg.”

“The doxy infestation?” Regulus’ voice was as light as it could only be when he was giving Sirius the option to ignore the true topic.

“I can’t be here.”

Regulus’s lips twitched, tightening then relaxing with his thoughts. His eyes wandered quickly—fireflies trapped in a jar. Eventually, more than the urge to think of something to say, a yawn over took him.

“What time is it?”

Sirius glanced toward an old grandfather clock, squinting through the dark. “Clock says two, but you know, that thing could be broken. It’s up here, isn’t it?”

Regulus gave him a long look before sighing and laying his head back down against the arm of the chair. “Go to sleep, Sirius,” he muttered. “You just need to sleep.”

“I can’t. I can’t sleep here.”

“You have to try.”

“They’re being loud downstairs.”

“Our rooms are soundproof.”

“I get horrible nightmares.”

“Everyone has nightmares sometimes.”

Sirius felt the clenching ball in his belly solidify and grow.

“You? What kind of nightmares do you get, then?”

Regulus shrugged. “Monsters, I guess. Falling.”

A child’s dreams.

“You’re so young.” The ball reached up into Sirius’ chest, into his throat, and finally into his eyes, pushing tears out. Mouth closed and clenched against a sob, he choked on it while he blinked.

Regulus’ face dropped into uncertainty, brows and mouth pinched.

“You’re so young,” Sirius repeated, “You were always so young.”

Regulus shuddered. “Don’t,” he warned.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want to know what happens—” Regulus’ voice grew more frantic, his back rigid instead of languid against his chair—“You promised. Don’t say anything more.”

Sirius let loose a hysterical laugh.

“Just go to bed, Sirius.” The whisper was so soft like the brush strokes of a child’s face. Regulus’ eyes squeezed shut.

Sirius said nothing in return. He had to pull himself together for his brother and for himself. He forced his muscles to relax one by one, biting his tongue, his lips, his cheek. His weight shifted back, freeing his knees so he could stretch his legs carefully between them. Finally, he leaned back on his hands.

“Well—” Sirius’ heart was still pounding, mind racing, voice shaking—“Well why don’t you… why don’t you tell me about your first term at Hogwarts, yeah?”

A silence passed between them, appraising and weary like so many others. Finally, the portrait shook its head. It’s eyes were sad, lips downturned and cheeks hollowed.

“Really, Sirius… I tell you every day.”


End file.
